Diantha's Gate

1

I was six years old again. I timidly followed the brown buzz cut in front of me, careful not to step out of the line that had been carefully constructed by Ms. Brendan. I found myself torn between a rush of excited jitters and a wave of anxiety, as we made our way to the double doors that would lead to our fifteen minutes of freedom.

It's not like it was my first time to go out to recess. I'd been in daycare for as long as I could remember. But this was different. This was kindergarten, and the social stakes were definitely higher. That and the swing count was lower.

Most elementary schools have around six swings on their playgrounds. This one had two, and in this moment, I knew with certainty that I would do whatever it took to commandeer one of them. I needed to mark my territory now. If I wasn't willing to demonstrate my confidence on my very first day, then I'd potentially have to prove myself each following day in some way or another to those bratty kids who always got the easy breaks. Daycare had taught me a thing or two, and I wasn't going to repeat old mistakes.

I've been in love with the sensation of swinging since I was old enough to sit in one of those little cagey contraptions designed for toddlers that you can find at most parks. Kindergarten was new, and it was scary. Swings were familiar, and nothing would ease my discomfort like this fifteen minutes of flying to the cadence of creaking metal.

The moment we were released from formation, I pounded down the asphalt, blood racing through my scrawny legs, driving me toward those swings.

With the help of my peripheral vision, I was relieved to find that most kids were hurling themselves toward the huge wooden castle play gym, toward the rocket shaped slide, toward the tetherball pole. But someone was directly behind me, shoes crunching on the gravel and breaths heaving. Instinct forced me to push myself harder; this kid was competition. I didn't turn to assess the owner of those crashing footfalls. I merely ran. My opponent and I skidded to a halt at the same time, both of us clinging to the metal chains of our own swings as though they were buoys in shark-infested waters. As we discovered ourselves to each have what we wanted, we turned to each other for the first time and released nervous giggles. Relief flooded me as I took her in, putting out the small fire in the pit of my stomach; I felt a sudden knowing that I'd just made my very first friend.

Her skin was a warm shade of golden brown, much like the leaves I loved to collect in the fall. Sitting carelessly atop her slight frame was a mass of rich umber ringlets, which framed her face perfectly. And her eyes. They were what truly won my trust. They were the most captivating shade of green, one I was unfamiliar with, even though I'd nearly memorized every shade in my 164 count box of Crayolas. They looked like a lush cactus plant, stranded in the smooth ripples of desert sand. They were magical.

"I'm Brynn," she said simply, like talking to me was the easiest thing in the world.

I smiled at her.

"What's your name?" she asked, and I felt silly for forgetting to offer the information unprompted.

After catching my breath, I replied, "It's Nia."

In an odd turn of events that I failed to question, I found that she was already in her swing, back facing me, utterly still. No longer did I have a swing in which to sit, as there was only one.

My swing.

She slowly rocked in the wooden seat, and the ropes dug into the branches as the weight of her eighteen year old body tugged at them. We were in front of my house.